Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
He should probably just scrub it off, and see what the make-up team would do.
At least he didn’t have to be on camera today.
He reached for a tissue—then winced as the pounding in his head turned into a pounding at the door. More a knocking, light, but with his skull on fire it was like a bloody damned gong going off inside his cranium. He shrank back, closing his eyes against the throbbing.
Then nearly fell off his stool as Brendan Lau called through, “Tell? You in there? It’s Lau.”
Ohhh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Why was Brendan here?
Breathless, Cillian gripped the edge of the dressing table, peering at his reflection again. He looked like a bucket of hot arse, but maybe Brendan would be polite and pretend not to notice.
The doorknob twisted. “Cillian?”
Crap.
“Give me a second!” he called, and bolted for the door. Collided with the ottoman. Fell on top of it with his arms flailing, crashing down hard on his stomach. Tried to get up. Tangled his legs. Sent the ottoman spilling onto its side.
Then tumbled himself to the door.
Deep breath. Deep breath, come on, come on, open the door—
He creaked the door open, ducking his head to let his hair half-hide his face, just barely peeking out. Brendan stood on the other side in a casual, hips-forward slouch that drew his body into contrasts of smooth flows and stark angles against designer jeans and a black silk button-down shirt. But the moment deep brown eyes fell on Cillian, that closed, almost haughty expression transformed into a mask of cold steel, all cutting edges and mountainous brows and a flash of hard anger in Brendan’s gaze.
“Please pardon me,” Brendan said, each word forced through his teeth in a rippling, raw bass snarl. “I think I’m about to go commit a murder.”
Large hands clenched.
And then Brendan’s polished shoes squeaked softly against the floor as he turned away and stalked down the hall toward Studio 207.
Cillian stood frozen, watching the rock and sway of broad, strong, square-cut shoulders. What…? What in the fu—
Oh.
Realization snapped through him with the whiplash sting of panic, and he threw himself out of the dressing room, pelting down the hall after Brendan. Cillian skidded himself into Brendan’s path, spreading his arms to block the hallway.
“Stop,” he gasped out even though talking hurt, pulling at his swollen mouth. “It’s—it’s not what you think, please don’t—”
Brendan jolted to a halt just inches away from him, dark eyes a drill coring Cillian out. “If it’s not what I think it is, I’d like to know exactly what it could be, or I will make that man swallow his own cock after I detach it from his body. That’s not a fucking ‘what almost happened,’ Cillian. That’s—”
“Shhh.” Cillian glanced over his shoulder, his heart giving a nervous thump, then risked catching Brendan’s shoulders and attempting to turn him around, trying to push him back toward Cillian’s dressing room. “Not here.”
He couldn’t afford anyone in the cast getting curious about the commotion, and peeking out of their own dressing rooms to catch him like this.
Brendan didn’t budge so much as a millimeter, just looking at Cillian with one thick black brow raised, before he slowly turned himself around of his own free will. His back was a broad black sign leading Cillian, a banner beckoning him to trail in Brendan’s wake as Brendan stalked and Cillian shuffled back to his dressing room.
Inside, Brendan shut the door firmly enough to make Cillian jump, then clicked the lock. He pointed one stern finger at the sofa. “Sit,” he growled, then prowled over to the far wall and yanked open the rows of white cabinets mounted against the stucco. “I know they keep first aid kits in here somewhere…”
Cillian slumped down onto the sofa numbly. “I should be okay…? I took some NSAIDs, those make the swelling go down, right…?”
A flat look turned over Brendan’s shoulder, before he pulled down a large white plastic bin with a red cross on the lid. “I miss being young enough that anything wrong could be fixed with an aspirin.”
“Ibuprofen,” Cillian mumbled around his swollen mouth. “And I took four. And they’re not helping.”
Brendan just gave him another look—and then kicked the ottoman back upright with one lithe movement, before hooking his foot around it and sharply sliding it over to rest right at Cillian’s feet. Next thing Cillian knew, Brendan had settled astride the ottoman with his long, lean thighs spread wide, jeans drawn tight against corded muscles and narrow hips, the first aid kit popped open against his thigh.
“Look at me,” Brendan commanded, touching subtly roughened, warm fingertips underneath Cillian’s chin, seeming to know just where it wouldn’t hurt. “You don’t have any loose teeth? Nothing feels broken? What about the cartilage in your nose?”
“No—no, I checked my teeth, I…” Gulping, Cillian tried to hold still as, without so much as an if-you-please, Brendan’s fingertips probed over him. A coarse thumb-pad pressed against his lower lip, and the spark that shot through him wasn’t all pain. He flushed. Mr. Anderson had been right; Brendan took up so much space, until the air between them wasn’t enough for Cillian to breathe. “It’s just…bruising…a few cuts…nothing’s broken. He didn’t even hit my nose.”